


Kill or Cure

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 19:30:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11341827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Holiday vignette. Chicken soup for the slasher's soul on Thanksgiving.





	Kill or Cure

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Kill Or Cure by Halrloprillalar

30 Nov 98  
DISTRIBUTION: OK for Archive/X and the Socks Shoppe. Elsewhere by permission. Email forwarding OK.  
RATING: Slash, R for adult themes  
SPOILERS: None  
November 1998  
SUMMARY: Skinner/Pendrell. Holiday vignette. Chicken soup for the slasher's soul on Thanksgiving.  
NOTES: Once again, not much happens in this story. It's my big attempt at WalterTorture. <g>  
DISCLAIMER: Skinner, Pendrell, and the X-Files are owned by Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox.

* * *

Kill Or Cure  
by Halrloprillalar  
<>

Thanksgiving

The aching woke him up. Eyes still closed, Skinner took a quick inventory of his body. God, he was sore, deep bone sore and tired. He stretched a little and wished he hadn't when his limbs screamed at him. John Henry was driving steel inside his head; each pound shook his swollen face and kept his mind from focusing properly. A flicker of fear teased him. Where was he? Had someone beaten him up?

A sound...someone moving in the room. Skinner tensed his complaining muscles and sat up quickly, opening his eyes on the way. He collided with a reaching arm, saw a brief confusion of movement and grey t-shirt, heard a crash.

"Shit! Ow!"

He knew that voice. Blinking, he saw a man, face obscured by the shirt he was pulling over his head. Then the red head emerged. Daniel. On the floor, a mug lay on its side amidst a puddle.

"Walter, are you OK?" Pendrell tossed his shirt into the laundry hamper and moved closer to the bed.

This almost made sense. "What happened?"

"Well, just now, I was bringing you a cup of tea when you spilled it all over me."

Oh. Tea. Daniel. Spill. Shirt. "Are you OK?"

"I'm fine, it didn't burn me. And it missed you completely, I think. How are you feeling? You look like hell."

"What happened? Did someone jump me?" Skinner tried to find last night inside his memories, but mist drifted in front of his mind's eye.

Pendrell hooted with laughter and sagged down on the side of the bed, joggling Skinner and throwing John Henry off his rhythm. Skinner winced.

"Oh, sorry." Pendrell reached out and took his hand. "I *told* you not to take NyQuil. But would you listen? No. I *said* it would make you foggy. Did you believe me? No. Nobody beat you up. You have a very bad cold. That's all." He stood. "Sorry it's not something more dignified and attractive. I could shoot you in the leg if you like."

Skinner closed his eyes and passed a hand across his brow. A cold. It was beginning to come back to him now.

"Just rest, Walter. I'll get you some more tea and clean this up." Picking up the mug, Pendrell left the room.

A cold. And he was here? Was it the weekend? No, it was...later in the week...Thursday. Why was he at Pendrell's on Thursday?

Out of the mists sailed a ship. The Mayflower.

Skinner squinted at the clock. Already past nine; they should have been on the road by now. One of the basic human instincts--make a good impression on your boyfriend's mother--galvanised him and he pulled himself out of bed, stoically ignoring the protests of almost every part of his body. Must shower, must shave, must dress. He was a Marine, dammit. Semper virilis.

He took one step, then slipped in the tea, falling hard. John Henry redoubled his efforts. Pendrell reappeared, mug in hand.

"Walter, couldn't you have waited 'til I cleaned that up?" Pendrell set down the tea and helped Skinner back onto his feet. "Go to the bathroom and then get your ass back into the bed."

Not bed, car. "But we have to go. We'll be late."

Pendrell smiled up at him. "You're not going anywhere, Skipper. Not like this."

"Your mother--"

"I already called her. I said you were too sick to travel and that I was staying here to take care of you. She believed me, I think. But this may cost us an extra day's visit at Christmas. Uh, if you come home with me for Christmas, that is."

"We can still make it." Just half an hour to get ready.

Pushing Skinner towards the door, Pendrell busied himself with a rag. "No. You ignored my suggestions last night and see where it got you. Today, try following them for a change."

If Pendrell wouldn't go, he wouldn't go. And Skinner knew that he was in no shape to drive. So be it. He headed for the bathroom and stood under the hot water for a long, long time, letting the steam ease his congestion a little and the heat relax his muscles. Just for today, he skipped shaving. No need to cut himself on top of everything else.

Back in bed, he sipped his tea and pondered the mingled sensations of pain, guilt, relief, and just plain ickiness. Lucy jumped up and settled in beside him, pressing her flank against his thigh and purring loudly.

Pendrell came in and handed Skinner a glass of orange juice and some Advil. "Take these. I'll give you something for the other symptoms later, but I have to be sure that the NyQuil has run its course first."

The juice tasted horrible. "What did you put into this?" Skinner eyed the glass, wary of drinking more.

"Nothing. You have a cold, remember? Your taste is all wacked."

"Wacked?" Sniffing cautiously, Skinner downed another few gulps.

"A scientific term meaning screwed up. Finish that and I'll bring some water too. Then try to get some sleep. If you're really good, I might make my mother's miracle cure cayenne chicken soup for you later. She gave me the recipe when I called."

Skinner drained the glass and handed it back. Carefully sliding down, he tried to find the least uncomfortable position. Pendrell closed the curtains, then leaned over and kissed the top of his head. Nice. Lucy rearranged herself and snuggled in again, still purring. Very nice. He'd never be able to sleep, though. And the NyQuil wasn't as bad as Pendrell thought. He was clear as a bell. He closed his eyes, just for a moment.

When he opened them again, a glass of water and a box of tissues were sitting on the bedside table and the clock read 12:17. He did a quick inventory: limbs, still aching; head, still pounding and stuffed up; throat, now sore; nose, beginning to run; thought processes, definitely much more lucid. He sat up and blew his nose, then drank a little.

Lucy climbed up into his lap and he stroked her warm fur as he blinked awake. After few minutes, he got up, pulling on his bathrobe, and headed for the kitchen. He poured himself another glass of juice and sat at the table to drink it, staring out the window at the dreary grey sky.

Not the holiday weekend that they had planned, that's for certain. He was sorry to miss it; he'd already spent a lot of emotional energy gearing up to meet Pendrell's family and now he'd have to wait still longer. And Daniel must have been disappointed.

Daniel. Where was he? Skinner got up and looked in the living room. No Pendrell, but the couch looked inviting. Skinner sat down and pulled an afghan over his legs, watching the activity in Pendrell's split-level fish-gerbil condo contraption, letting it soothe him.

He almost didn't hear Pendrell enter the room and sit down beside him.

"Feeling better?" Pendrell put his arm around Skinner's shoulders.

"Not much." Skinner twisted his mouth into a wry grin. "Worse, actually. But at least I can think."

"No more NyQuil?"

"No more NyQuil. No more 'I told you so'?" Skinner swallowed, feeling the rasp in his throat.

Pendrell paused. "OK, at least for now. Far be it from me to torment an invalid. Speaking of which, are you hungry?"

He had to think about that one. "A bit."

"You should eat something. Why don't you stay tucked up here, and I'll make you some soup?"

"You don't need to go to all this trouble."

Pendrell squeezed his shoulders. "Come on, I want to. I can't bear to see you suffer." He stood. "Want the remote?"

Too early for football. "No, but where's my luggage? I have a Louis L'Amour."

"How can you read that tripe? It's in the hall. Want me to look?"

"No." Skinner stood. "I'm fine. And maybe I like tripe."

"There's no accounting for taste," Pendrell tossed over his shoulder as he left for the kitchen.

"Obviously," Skinner called back. His throat caught again and he started to cough, gulping down some water to stop the spasm.

The hallway was chilly and Skinner didn't linger, pulling "The Sackett Brand" from the side pocket of his suitcase and heading back for the living room. On the coffee table, a glass of orange juice and another box of tissues waited. Skinner smiled and at the core of all the pain and ickiness, a coal of comfort glowed. He settled in, Lucy at his feet, and immersed himself in L'Amour's outrageous and entertaining world, coming up at intervals to sip his juice and blow his nose.

After a while, whiffs of cooking broth began to float out to him and his hunger sharpened from dull to keen. Daniel brought in a bowl and a stack of crackers on a tray.

"It smells good, Professor. Aren't you having some?"

Pendrell passed him the tray. "I ate a huge sandwich. Only sick people get the soup."

Crumbling the crackers in, Skinner looked closely for anything weird. "What's in it?"

"Taste it first."

Skinner closed his eyes for a moment. "I really hate it when you do that. You made me soup, for which I am grateful, but now you're trying to trick me and if I complain, I'll seem ungrateful."

"You're smarter than you look, Skipper." Pendrell grinned.

"Not smart enough. OK, I'll trust you on this one." Skinner glared perfunctorily, then spooned up some soup and took a cautious mouthful. Hot, chickeny, not bad... Then the cayenne hit him and his eyes began to water.

"So? What do you think?"

"Hot." Skinner blinked rapidly and tried to ignore the burning on his tongue.

"It's supposed to be. The cayenne is good for congestion."

"And what else is in here?"

Pendrell thought a moment. "Chicken, garlic, cayenne pepper, zinc gluconate, ipratropium bromide, vitamin C, carrots, and celery."

"Your mother puts zinc gluconate and iprat-whatzit in her chicken soup?" That wouldn't even be too big of a surprise.

"No, I added those myself. They're good for cold symptoms." Pendrell gestured to the bowl. "Eat, eat. It's kill or cure now, Walter, so take a chance."

Well, he'd had spicier food than this before. Skinner ate all the soup, then a few spare crackers to take away some of the fire. Good. He reached out and ruffled Pendrell's hair. "Thanks. You're a good cook."

"A compliment! You're working off this NyQuil thing fast."

"What more do I have to do?"

Pendrell laid one hand on Skinner's shoulder. "How about letting me give you a massage?"

"And that's a favour for *you*?" Skinner's back muscles clamoured for him to just shut up and accept.

"I'm building up some favour credit. There's this Star Trek Celebrity Cruise..."

"You're not getting anywhere near me if you don't promise you won't make me go on that cruise." He wasn't taking any chances. It was hard to tell when Pendrell was teasing and when he actually meant stuff like this.

"OK, OK." Pendrell pulled the afghan away and laid it on the rug. "Anything to get my hands on you. If you're going to lounge around in your boxers, you have to expect some extra attention. Come on, lie down."

Skinner eased himself onto the floor and lay face down. He felt Pendrell kneel over him and begin working on his shoulders. Probing fingertips found the knots and kneaded at them, turning tension into warmth.

"Daniel..."

"Mmm?"

"I'm sorry about the weekend. I could have gone. Or you should have gone without me." Thumbs found the sweet spot just below his shoulder blades.

"Without you? Mom would have killed me." Pendrell leaned in with the heels of his hands. "I was looking forward to seeing them, but I'll go at Christmas. You're invited, but you don't have to decide yet." He switched back to fingertips, moving lower. "You're too sick to enjoy a family weekend and anyhow, Mom tells me Lisa's on the rebound now. Spending four days trying to keep my sister from stealing my boyfriend isn't as much fun as it sounds."

Skinner tried to laugh, but his position made it difficult. Pendrell worked on the small of his back, pressing deeply.

Breathing was easier now, Skinner noticed. His congestion had eased, though his throat still hurt. John Henry had laid his hammer down. His bones ached, but the massage was alleviating a lot of his fatigue. Skinner could feel the miracle cure soup sending out warmth through his whole body, even though he was mostly bare. It tingled. It made him feel awake. Alive. Randy. Oh my.

He wasn't aroused, just...thinking about it. The hands on his back, the nearness of his lover--they piqued another basic human instinct. When Pendrell slapped his ass and told him he was finished, Skinner rolled over, pulled him down and kissed him.

Skinner broke off before he wanted to, unable to stifle a cough. Pendrell propped himself up on one elbow.

"Walter, you taste *so* bad." He slid one hand across Skinner's bare chest. "What's with you? You're too sick to be interested."

Opening his eyes a little wider, Skinner stared at Pendrell for a few long silent seconds. It was his secret weapon, not to be used very often. When he thought Pendrell was off-balance enough, he answered. "Must be the miracle soup." He touched Pendrell's cheek. "You should try some."

"Maybe I should." He smiled. "I'm sorry, Walter, but I'm not sure I relish the thought of sexual congress with someone who's generating as much mucous as you are right now."

"What about if I don't kiss you? Just think of the favour credit. And if I promise to cook you a turkey dinner next week?"

"By next week I'll be the one with the cold. You can make me the miracle soup instead." Pendrell stood and pulled Skinner up after him.

"I thought I'd just dose you with NyQuil." Skinner drew Pendrell into an embrace, resting his chin on the red hair.

"Maybe I should give you some now." Pendrell leaned into Skinner's shoulder, stroking his back gently. "To calm you down."

"Daniel..."

"Hmm?"

"Thank you. For everything."

Pendrell looked up. "You're welcome."

F I N I S

What cold remedy do you swear by? Send your favourite, and your feedback, to 


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